Hot Alpha SEALs: Military Romance Megaset

by Sharon Hamilton

  She wrung out the garments as best she could then pulled and plucked on the cloying clothing. Oh, Lord. Ford was gonna love the wet t-shirt look. It didn’t help that her nipples were puckering up with cold underneath her damp sports bra and thin tank top. Bracing herself for his disdain, or at least rude stare, she stepped out into the room and was startled to find it empty. Where had Ford gone? Out for food, hopefully.

  She guzzled down a ton of water using the plastic cup by the sink, then combed out her hair. She was startled to see in the mirror that it had grown out to nearly her shoulder blades in the past few months. More startling was the deep tan she also was sporting. It made her gray-green eyes look even lighter and brighter than usual.

  She towel-dried her hair and pulled it up into a high ponytail. Using the motel’s wall-mounted blow dryer, she worked at drying her clothes. They were still damp, but no longer clammy, when the door opened abruptly behind her and she spun, brandishing the blow dryer like a six-shooter.

  “Gonna take me down with that thing?” Ford asked dryly.

  Damn. No grocery bags in sight that might be human sustenance. She would take calories right now in pretty much any form she could get them. She was ravenous after the afternoon’s run and then the long cross-country flight. Time to break out the emergency protein bars, apparently.

  “I’m de-stinked,” she announced. “Any chance there’s somewhere nearby where I can grab a bite of real food?”

  His cell phone rang just then and he fished it out of his jeans, answering tersely with, “Go.” He listened for a moment. Then, “The package is almost delivered. Understood.”

  She stowed the hair dryer in its wall mount and turned back to him. “So. Are you a drug dealer, or am I the package?”

  “You would, in fact, be the package.”

  “Can we please feed the package, now?”

  He gestured with a brief jerk of his head for her to follow him and headed outside once more. She noticed this time as she passed him that she was about six inches shorter than him. She was pushing five foot eight which made him a little over six feet tall. He probably had sixty pounds on her in weight, even though at a glance he looked lean. She’d developed a discerning eye for the muscle density of SEALs over the past several months.

  He moved past her with deceptive speed for a guy with a bum leg. He reached for her car door just as her hand moved toward the handle. He opened it in front of her and she looked up at him, startled.

  “Don’t get used to it. I won’t coddle you or get any doors for you after tonight. But let the record show my mother didn’t raise a heathen.”

  “Duly noted,” she replied, bemused, as she slid into her seat and he closed the door. He went around to the driver’s side and in seconds was backing out of the lot. He threw the Jeep in gear and took off down the road. A gas station next to the motel appeared operational, along with a titty bar that looked like a total dive. Oddly, a bait shop was open, too, even though it was approaching midnight. Apparently night fishing was a local pastime.

  Ford turned off the narrow asphalt road onto an even narrower dirt road, and she was pretty sure she was going to start hearing banjos playing any second.

  They banged along the terrible road for maybe ten uncomfortable minutes before a building on high stilts came into sight ahead with a half-dozen muddy trucks parked in front of it. Another half-dozen shallow bottom boats were tied up at its dock.

  “We’re here,” he announced.

  “Where’s here?”

  “At the best steak joint in the Bayou Toucheaux.”

  Her mouth started to salivate at the mere mention of a good steak. He led her up a staircase to a rickety wrap-around porch. The building looked like a stiff breeze would blow it over.

  She followed Ford into the dim, smoky interior. Any fire marshal worth his salt would have a stroke at the plentiful cigars and flaming grill filling the wooden structure with smoke. A half-dozen rednecks in sleeveless shirts and baseball caps bellied up to the bar, and several couples sat at tables in the middle of the room.

  “’Eyy, chère,” one of the rednecks at the bar slurred as he spotted her. The guy strolled over to her, flashing a smile that had about one tooth for every three available tooth slots. “You new come to dee parish, oui?”

  Ford took a step forward, injecting himself between her and the drunk. “She new come to the parish with me.”

  “Bah. Femme like dat wan’ de real man. Not girly boy wit’ de pretty face.” The drunk gave Ford a hard shove. Trina winced. It just couldn’t be a good idea to pick a fight with a trained killer.

  Ford reached forward casually, gently even, to grasp the man’s hand, and in a second or so, the big drunk dropped to his knees howling. He leaned down and snarled low, “You think you can fuck with me like back in the good old days, Jimbo? Take my girl? Humiliate me? Think again, asshole.”

  “Fuck you,” the guy growled.

  Ford just laughed quietly and tightened his grip until the guy on the floor howled with pain.

  “Ford!” she exclaimed.

  He glanced up at her as if he’d momentarily forgotten she was there. His stare was flat. Emotionless. He looked like Death incarnate.

  “Turn him loose,” she gritted out low. “I’m starving, and I don’t want to get kicked out of here.”

  Ford released the man’s hand, or more precisely, he released the unfortunate thumb bent back nearly to the guy’s wrist. Jimbo surged to his feet, right fist cocking back as he rose. Ford moved so fast Trina barely saw him slide past his foe. But all of a sudden Toothless/Jimbo was facing her, and Ford was behind the guy, forearm around his neck, and the drunk was rapidly turning an ugly shade of purple.

  She spoke calmly and slowly. “Ford, I’m fine.” She waited until he made eye contact with her to continue. “This guy isn’t going to lay a finger on me. Are you?” she asked Toothless.

  The drunk tried to shake his head within Ford’s grasp but only managed to bug his eyes out a little more.

  “Turn him loose so we can eat our dinner. Please? For me?”

  Ford nodded tersely and turned the drunk loose. The Cajun bent forward gasping and coughing, and Trina leaned down beside him and spoke dryly. “You’re welcome. And for the record, he could’ve snapped your neck like a twig if he actually wanted to kill you. Walk away from him and don’t ever mess with him again, or next time, I will let him break your neck.”

  The guy glared up at her, spitting out something under his fetid breath about crazy bitches and their homicidal fag pretty boys. Whatever. She was more concerned about Ford. She took a step that brought her face-to-face with him. “You okay?” she asked under her breath.

  “Yeah. Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She stared up at him, startled. He sounded utterly normal. Casual. The incident was a stark reminder of just how lethal these SEALs could be when crossed. They killed with cool, calculated precision. No anger, no emotion, just efficient violence in the blink of an eye.

  The drunk stumbled back toward his equally dentally challenged comrades, grumbling about jealous bastards who refused to share the hot chicks. At least somebody thought she was hot. Of course, she still had all her teeth. By that measure alone, she was probably smoking hot to those losers.

  Ford was still rooted in place, though. Maybe he wasn’t so unaffected, after all. She reached out to touch his elbow lightly. “Ready to eat?”

  He shook himself a little. “Yes. You?”

  She smiled. “Bring on the meat, big guy.”

  His eyes glinted at her double entendre, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

  He glanced across the room toward a grill that was actually a big oil drum split in half with some sort of metal mesh over the two halves. Beds of charcoal filled the drums. “Hey, Marie,” he called out.

  The woman standing in front of the grill turned around, wielding a long pair of tongs, and bellowed back, “Grab a table and yell out what y’all want. Damn waitress didn’ show up, t�
�night.”

  She sank into the seat opposite Ford, studying her companion closely. He had reacted like that wasn’t the first time a big, Cajun redneck had tried to push him around. Same way she would react if a man who looked like one of her mom’s boyfriends tried to rough her up, nowadays. She would go postal on his ass.

  Ford scowled back at her as he caught her intent regard on him. Didn’t like being psychoanalyzed, huh?

  “You know those guys?” she asked cautiously.

  “Everyone in these parts knows the Kimball brothers. I’m surprised all four of them are out of jail at the same time.”

  “Are they petty criminals or into bigger stuff?”

  Ford shrugged. “They deal drugs. Run guns. Extort protection money from local businesses. Rumor has it they’ve killed a few folks who got in their way or refused to pay.” He added sardonically, “And they’re just smart enough to stay one step ahead of the law. The sheriff puts them away for small stuff any time he can catch them. But so far, they’ve avoided arrest for the more serious felonies everyone knows they’ve committed.”

  She eyed the big men across the room, memorizing their faces for future reference.

  “How do you like your steak?” he asked her tersely.

  “Rare.”

  “Pink rare or bleeding rare?”

  She grinned. “Marie can just walk my steak past the flame and call it good.”

  Ford called out, “Two steaks. Biggest ones you’ve got and rare as a virgin in a whorehouse.”

  Guffaws of laughter filled the room. The Kimball boys glowered, however. Their heads came together angrily as they muttered amongst themselves. She made a mental note to keep an eye on that bunch as the night progressed and the level of whiskey in the bottle in front of them went down.

  Marie came over to their table carrying an armload of plates and bowls.

  “Long time, no see, Ford. Been, what? Fi’teen years since an Alambeaux come ’round these parts?”

  “Something like that,” he answered noncommittally.

  “Good to have you home, boy.”

  “Good to be here.” With every word he spoke, Trina swore his Louisiana drawl got stronger. So. This was his home? Why on earth would Perriman have sent the two of them to one of his men’s hometowns in the middle of Cajun country? The longer she was here, the more the questions were stacking up.

  Marie plunked down a platter of toasted garlic bread, a mess of green beans, and a big bowl of red beans and rice with sausage in it so spicy it made Trina’s eyes water. When it came, a huge steak covered her entire plate and was so tender she could cut it with her fork. She dug in with gusto.

  It took a while for her to lay her napkin down and push her plate back. Another perk of her recent training: she could eat as much of anything she wanted and not gain an ounce. If anything, she’d lost a little weight, and that with putting on more muscle mass. All her pants had gotten loose during her months of pre-SEAL training in California.

  Someone fed the decrepit jukebox in the corner a handful of quarters, and twangy, upbeat zydeco music abruptly filled the place. The talk got louder, the beer flowed more freely, and women drifted into the bar and then out with various men.

  Under the din, Ford leaned forward. “How much did Perriman tell you?”

  “About what?”

  Ford frowned.

  She shrugged, “All he said to me was—and I quote—‘You’re out. You’ve got orders. Lambo, you have your orders. Get her off my base.’ End quote.”

  “Jesus. I’m gonna need a drink for this, then, and so are you.” He ordered up a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “I don’t like whiskey,” she announced as Marie thunked a fifth of some local rotgut on the table.

  “Tough. Drink up.” He poured two big glasses of the stuff.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “Hey if you can’t roll like one of the boys, we don’t have to have this conversation at all.”

  Scowling, she picked up the glass and chugged the contents, which burned like fire on the way down, shuddering at the powerful aftertaste. Even after the large meal, the alcohol went straight to her head. At least it dulled the pain in her muscles while it was also dulling her brain function.

  “Walk with me,” Ford ordered.

  He sounded tense as hell. What on earth was going on with him? He’d actually been reasonably pleasant during the meal. Admittedly, neither of them had talked much as they devoured their steaks.

  Perplexed, she followed him out to the porch. He strolled around back to face a narrow canal that stretched away into the blackness of the bayou. They were alone out here. Citronella candles perched on the railing provided the only light, their flames flickering weakly against the darkness. He leaned on the waist-high rail, propping his elbows on it, and stared off into the night.

  “You’re right about one thing,” he said low enough that she had to lean down beside him in a similar, elbow-propped pose to hear him. “The SEALs are never going to stand for women on the teams.”

  She huffed in exasperation. “That horse is dead. You don’t have to beat on it for fun.”

  “But you’re right about something else, too. There is a place for women in Special Warfare. More to the point, Perriman agrees with you that we need women in the SEAL Special Warfare Group.”

  “No fucking way. He hates women.”

  Ford snorted. “He hates everyone. But he loves the SEALs. Wants us to be the best we can be. Male or female, he doesn’t care.”

  “Why are you telling me this? He already booted me out.”

  Ford didn’t answer her directly. Rather, he changed subject abruptly, asking, “Did you notice how publicly the first class of women was rung out of BUD/S?”

  She snorted. “It was hard to miss. It made national news that no women made it through the first phase of INDOC training.”

  “That publicity was intentional. We need the public, hell, the world, to believe that there are no women SEALs and that there will never be women SEALs.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s because there are none.”

  “Perriman would like to change that. Starting with you.”

  She turned to stare at him. “Come again?”

  “Perriman thinks you’ve got what it takes. He wants to train you to become a SEAL. That’s the purpose of Operation Phoenix.”

  She laughed in disbelief. “Right.” She added sarcastically, “And that’s why he threw me out of training and sent me across the country to a swamp.”

  “I’m serious. Do you want to be a SEAL or not?”

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  Ford stared at the stunned woman beside him. Please say no. Please say no.

  “Hell to the yes, I want to be a SEAL!” Trina exclaimed.

  Dammit. He knew she would say that. He was in no shape to be training anyone, let alone the first woman SEAL. What the hell was Perriman thinking, throwing a woman at him like this? Perriman knew his knee was destroyed. Knew the doctors said his career was over. Knew that he was determined to get back in the saddle and back onto the teams no matter how much his knee hurt. Why then this lightweight assignment holding some girl’s hands until she got tired of pretending to play commando and quit?

  He did have to give Trina Zarkos credit for one thing though. She was one good-looking woman. Maybe if she looked more like the hairy, white trash asshole he’d put on the floor earlier, he would be able to concentrate better on the job at hand, to put the past behind him and move on with this new life he’d been shoved into. But as it was, he was having trouble taking his eyes off her. And he was having a hell of a time keeping his hands off her. She’d felt like molten sex in his arms, earlier.

  Reluctantly, he pushed aside the memory of holding her, which would have him too horny to stand upright in about ten seconds flat if he didn’t think about something else. Immediately. Anything else.

  Operation Phoenix. He was under orders
to train her how to be a SEAL.

  He’d vehemently protested the idea of any woman becoming a legit SEAL when Perriman first broached the assignment with him. But now that he’d met Trina in person and watched her train for a few days, he was reluctantly starting to see why Perriman thought she had the drive and mental toughness to play with the boys. It didn’t help matters that he trusted his boss’s judgment implicitly. Perriman read human beings better than just about any other person he’d ever met. If Perriman thought she was SEAL material, she undoubtedly was.

  He swore under his breath. Perriman was wrong about one thing, though. He was not the right man to turn her into one.

  He knew he ought to accept that he was never going to work in the field again. Hell, it was a miracle that he could walk. But if he’d made it back this far—well beyond where the doctors had told him he could rehab his knee, why not take his knee all the way back to operational? One thing he was sure of: no way was he cut out to be a SEAL instructor. Perriman—in his damned infinite wisdom—seemed to think this insane, waste-of-time mission would be good for him. Fucker.

  “Why the trip to Louisiana?” the waste of time beside him asked eagerly.

  “The idea is to keep your existence completely off the radar. As long as the media’s crawling all over the story of the first women entering SEAL training, any secrecy in Coronado is impossible. That’s why the old man had me march you across camp this afternoon where everyone could see you leaving.”

  “So Perriman’s making a big fuss about tossing out the women and then bringing them all here secretly?”

  “Not exactly. He’s legitimately tossing out most of the women. But he saw something in you. He thinks you’ve got the grit, smarts, and leadership ability it takes to be an operator.”

  Silence fell between them as they stared at the sluggish black water below. It lapped around the stilts supporting the building, oily and thick. He could feel the formidable mind of the woman beside him working overtime. One thing Perriman had gotten right: Trina Zarkov was a sharp cookie. Observant as hell. Which was good. She would need both to make it through the rest of her training.